Work Text:
Basilio was dead. The revolution he was organizing, aborted just like the jeweler Simoun’s. Although Matanglawin’s bandits lay waste to Pili and the surrounding towns, Corporal Tonying had somehow heard wind of Placido’s role in the revolts. A letter, apparently, found on Basilio’s person, confirming the young Batangueño’s involvement. He had been traveling to and from Hong Kong, aboard the ship of Simoun’s contact, smuggling guns and gunpowder and other supplies across the border.
Placido had come to Juanito in the nick of time - in the ancestral residence of his mother’s side of the family in Lipa. The Gutierrezes had gotten rich during the coffee boom of Lipa during the 1830s, and eventually Juanito’s mother, Doña Juana Gutierrez, married his father Don Timoteo. Juanito had just been in the middle of settling his mother’s decades-old debts and disputes when Placido came knocking at the door, wounded and bleeding. He asked for water, and then for his mother.
Wasting no time, Juanito called over his coachman and rushed the two of them over to Tanauan, where the hapless Cabesang Andang was unknowingly waiting to see her son one last time.
There they were in her sala. Juanito gazed upon mother and son, and wept at how tragic the circumstances were. Paulita had taught him about the Pietà by Michelangelo, and he considered the tragic irony of things. A tragedy carved in marble.
Placido lay in Cabesang Andang’s arms. Juanito heard her sobs, and in between them the gasps of air. She was trying to keep her head above water, out of the ocean of grief. But the tide was receding and the wave was approaching.
Placido was about to die.
“Placi! Placiding! Oh, old buddy old chum!” Juanito said, coming closer to him. “Don’t go! Don’t go, please! Please, you’re the only friend I have in the world! You inspire me to be better, Penitente! Please, please! PLACIDO PENITENTE DON’T YOU DIE ON ME!”
The rest was only a deafening silence.